The Faded Attic
The shelling has not ceased since dawn, a rhythmic, grinding percussion that shakes the dust from the rafters of the library where I am currently held, though I suspect the confinement is less about my safety and more about the preservation of a secret that rots in the walls of this house. I write this by the light of a single, sputtering candle, my hand trembling not from fear but from the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima